


Kingmaker

by stillwaterseas (phoenixflight)



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, Bad Touch, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Child Abuse, Dark, Gaslighting, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Manipulation, Non-Explicit Sex, Politics, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-06
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2019-11-13 22:46:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18040535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenixflight/pseuds/stillwaterseas
Summary: Laurent never wanted to be king.





	Kingmaker

**Author's Note:**

  * For [M J Holyoke (wholeyolk)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wholeyolk/gifts).



> A gift for wholeyolk! I've had some headcanons percolating on this topic for a while, so I took the opportunity to write them down. I hope this meets your craving for political darkfic!  
> Thanks to mist for helping me make this _even knifier,_ and to lola and foyet for looking it over. <3  
> This fic handles canon-compliant abuse in fairly explicit terms, although sex is not a focus, and contains plenty of behaviors that may be triggering. Please read responsibly.

Uncle’s regency was confirmed in a small ceremony in front of the council members, rather than in a formal coronation. Laurent watched the motes of dust dancing eerily in the sunlight which streamed through the windows of the council chamber. The white marble floor was blinding where the light spilled across it. It was a beautiful day in late spring, and Laurent hated it.

As the senior member of the council, Herode conducted the short ritual of regency. Laurent stood beside him, with the seal ring which had been taken from his brother’s dead hand heavy on his finger, holding the crown of the king. On his head he wore his own circlet; Auguste’s crown was still too large for him, sliding down his forehead and resting painfully on top of his ears.

“Laurent, do you accept this man to be your deputy in all duties; to guide your kingdom and to safeguard the throne of Vere until your maturity?” Herode’s voice was gentle when he spoke to him, and Laurent avoided his gaze, tired of seeing people’s pity.

He looked instead at his uncle, whose face was solemn and composed. “I do.”

“Then bestow this power upon him.”

Stepping forward, feeling like he was moving through deep water, dragging at his limbs, Laurent held out the crown. His uncle’s gaze was blue eyed like his father, and his hands were warm as they covered Laurent’s for just a moment, lifting it out of Laurent’s grip. The loss of its weight was shocking.

“From this day forward until Laurent the sixth, Crown Prince of Vere, reaches the age of twenty one,” Herode intoned, “the kingdom shall be held in the sacred trust of the Regency, for the protection of the throne…”

His part done, Laurent looked again toward the bright windows. On days like this, Auguste hated being indoors. Where Laurent could sit in a patch of sun and read for hours, Auguste wanted to be out riding, swimming, sparring. Laurent wondered if he would ever see the sun again without wanting to cry.

After the ceremony, as the council members filed quietly out of the room, his uncle put a hand on Laurent’s shoulder. Laurent braced himself for some platitude, some attempt at comfort. But instead uncle said, “What do you think of getting away for a while? Just you and me. To take a break from all this.”

“Where?” he asked, hearing the flatness in his own voice.

“We could go to Chastillion. Would you like that?”

It was impossible to muster enthusiasm for anything, but Arles was full of ghosts everywhere he turned. Chastillion, where Aleron had seldom taken him and Auguste, was appealing in its lack of memories. Laurent nodded.

 

The journey to Chastillion usually took a week, but they took only a small retinue and rode hard, covering the distance in four days. Laurent was glad of the long days and strenuous riding. The punishing pace meant that no one was making stilted conversation or inquiring worriedly about his health. At night they made camp and retired early, although Laurent was not exhausted enough to sleep much. Lying awake in a camp bed, sore from riding, was no different than lying in his familiar chambers in Arles, and his aching muscles were a welcome distraction.

The keep was smaller than he remembered, and uninviting; a squat central tower, ringed with a high wall - built to withstand siege, like Ravenel and Fortaine. And Marlas.

It was dark by the time they had handed their horses off to the waiting grooms in the keep. Instead of a formal meal in the hall, Uncle had ordered their supper brought to his rooms. Grateful to be away from public eyes, even just those of servants, Laurent slouched down on an overstuffed couch in the castle’s royal chambers, picking at his food.

His uncle kept refilling his glass of wine as he drained it - it was a good vintage, sweet and easy to drink. He spilled a little on the sleeve of his jacket, and waited for his uncle to reprimand him for the dark stain spreading on the fine fabric, but he didn’t. Instead, his uncle sat beside him on the couch and helped him take the constricting garment off.

Laurent sighed, leaning back against the warmth of his uncle’s shoulder. His body was loose and relaxed, and his thoughts scattered unhelpfully when he tried to focus them. It was a comforting change from the sharp, immovable pain of loss always close to the surface of his mind.

“You’ve been holding up well, these last few weeks,” his uncle said. “How are you feeling?”

“Dizzy,” Laurent said after a moment. His tongue felt thick in his mouth.

“Drink some water.” A cup was held to his lips, and Laurent curled his fingers around it. “I’m proud of you, Laurent.”

“Why?”

“You’ve taken up your duties as prince, so soon after such a great loss.” His uncle’s voice was soothing. Hypnotic. “I can see how hard it’s been.” When people started talking about Auguste in that quiet, sympathetic voice, Laurent usually stormed out of the room, but now moving his body seemed like too much work. This must be what being drunk was like, he thought. Thinking of Auguste didn’t hurt as much as it usually did.

“I don’t even want to be king,” he mumbled. The world was hazy. He felt heavy and a little sick. It wasn’t very pleasant, but he also didn’t feel like he was about to be torn in two by grief.

Uncle’s hand slid down his back, warm through his shirt, with his jacket off. “You don’t have to worry about that right now,” he murmured.

 

Laurent woke with a pounding headache. The inside of his mouth was sour and dry, and when he cracked his eyes open, the daylight lanced in like knives. He groaned, and a cool hand came to rest on his forehead. “Easy,” came Paschal’s familiar voice.

He was in his own chambers in Chastillion, adjoining his uncle’s rooms. The bedspread beneath him was white instead of ruby red.

Sitting up, Laurent winced. There was a raw, sore ache through the core of him, sharply painful when he moved the wrong way. The feeling made his stomach knot. “I’m...Is there...” He looked up at Paschal and stuttered to a halt.

Paschal was white-faced, looking back at him, holding a cup in his hand. Looking at it made a wave of nausea tighten his throat, but Paschal was ready with a basin. When he was finished heaving, Paschal offered the cup to him, and it was just water. He sipped and spat, washing his mouth.

“What…” Laurent began hoarsely. “What happened?”

“You had a little too much to drink,” Paschal said gently.

Belatedly, Laurent realized someone had undressed him. He wore a nightshirt, the thin cotton damp with sweat against his back. His ass hurt when he shifted.

“My uncle, he…” The two of them stared at one another. Laurent closed his mouth sharply. “Nevermind.”

Laurent spent the day shut up in his rooms, with the curtains drawn even after the light had stopped making his head pound. Paschal ordered him to eat something but he only drank a little of the broth the kitchen sent up. But by evening he was too bored and restless to stay locked up any longer, and he ventured out onto the walls of the keep.

The breeze still had the cool bite of spring, although the heat of the day lingered in the stones. Laurent leaned against the ramparts, watching the peachy light of day fade from the sky, and listening to the guards' rotations.

When the stars were out above him and it was too cold to stand out in the dark any longer, he went back to his rooms, but halted abruptly on the threshold. His uncle was waiting for him, sitting on his bed.

“What are you doing here?”

His uncle raised his eyebrows. “I wanted to see if you were alright.”

“Fine.” Laurent closed the door carefully behind him.

“Good.” His uncle rose from the bed. “Paschal said you were very ill. Do you remember last night at all?”

“You…” Laurent tried out the words on his tongue. “You fucked me.” They sounded foreign, the wrong shape. “Why?”

“Laurent.” His uncle sounded chiding, a little disappointed. “That’s very crude. We shared an intimate experience. It’s a very special connection to have with someone. You enjoyed it, didn’t you?”

Laurent didn’t really remember - there were only flashes. The dizzy feeling of drunkenness; his uncle’s beard scratching against his back; the wide, red expanse of the bed, face down on it. There was a panicky, jumpy feeling in his ribcage when he reached for those memories.

He shrugged.

His uncle clicked his tongue. “I love you very much, Laurent. You and I are all one another has left and I want to honor that. Now more than ever it’s vital that we show one another our love.”

“Is that why?” Laurent asked doubtfully. “Love?” Auguste believed in simple things like love, and duty. In Laurent’s experience, nothing was that simple. Duty had killed his brother, and no measure of love could save him.

“Yes, Laurent. It’s important to take comfort from your loved ones when you’re grieving, and to offer comfort. And you know you are very beautiful.”

He’d overheard his father and Auguste talking about him once.

 _He’s grown to be beautiful,_ Aleron had said, like it was a bad thing. _When he gets old enough to turn heads he’s going to have courtiers rioting for him._

Auguste had laughed. _Don’t worry,_ he’d said. _I’ll look after him._

His uncle took his silence for acquiescence. “I knew you were old enough to understand. Will you let me show you again? It will be better sober. ”

Laurent hesitated, chewing on his lip.

“Laurent. You’ll like it, I promise.” He put a hand on Laurent’s arm. “Come, relax.” He tugged Laurent to sit on the edge of the bed. Laurent’s shoulders were tight, and his uncle kneaded at them with both hands. Gradually, his knotted muscles began to loosen, and he leaned back into his uncle’s touch, sighing.

“That’s it,” his uncle was murmuring, breath damp against his ear. “I love you very much, Laurent. I’m going to take good care of you.”

Laurent shivered as his uncle’s broad hands slid from his shoulders down his back to his waist, over his hips and down his thighs, still rubbing soothingly. He pushed Laurent’s legs apart a little, and Laurent felt his heartbeat spike.

“You’re so good for me. So beautiful like this. Feel how hard you are?”

Laurent felt like his chest was caving in, like he couldn’t breathe. But he _was_ hard; a shivery, tight heat coiled at the base of his cock. His uncle’s hand slid down to cup him through his trousers, his touch firm and assured. Laurent was lightheaded.

“It’s alright,” Uncle whispered. “I’ve got you.”

Laurent leaned against his uncle’s chest and closed his eyes.

 

Back at Arles, the summer dragged on, hot and interminable, broken only by council meetings that Laurent paid less and less attention to. No one wanted his opinion anyway - they just wanted to convince him of theirs. He missed a time that hardly anyone had looked at the youngest prince. Now courtiers looked at him, but it was calculating, hungry; each one wondering what part of his influence they could buy, barter, or steal.

Laurent was restless and unsettled - sometimes his skin felt too small for his body, or like it was covered in ants. Once time, in a fit, he scratched his own arms until he raised red welts with his nails, but Uncle had scolded him for marring his pretty skin, so he hadn’t done it again. Instead he dug his fingernails into his palm where the marks didn’t last.

In the evenings he would spend hours with his uncle, and it was easier when they were alone together. Uncle praised him, and touched him softly, and he didn’t have to be strong or cold. When it was just the two of them, he could cling to his uncle for comfort, and know that he would be wrapped up in his arms and carried to bed, and held for a while.

Uncle listened to his opinions and they drank wine together and talked like equals. Laurent liked drinking, and the heavy haze it gave him, dulling the edges of everything painful. He liked the conversation too. They never discussed the politics of Vere, but instead horse-breeding, hunting, and jousting. Things that Auguste had liked. Sometimes they played games, on the lacquered black and white board, and when Laurent beat his uncle he felt a flare of something hot and real like triumph for the first time since his brother died.

Uncle gave him gifts too, jewelry and fine perfumes and an elaborate jacket in the brilliant scarlet of his uncle’s crest.

“I’m not a pet,” Laurent complained, as he tried it on in front of the mirror. “I have my own tailor. You don’t need to dress me.”

His uncle smiled indulgently. “I know. But it’s time you stopped wearing nothing but your brother’s colors - or do you want people to think you are afraid to step out of his shadow? You need to make your own identity if you are going to rule, Laurent.”

Laurent made a face in the mirror. He still didn’t want to be king. “Never mind that. How do I look?” He flashed a coy smile over his shoulder, an imitation of one he’d seen pets use a thousand times.

Putting his hands on Laurent’s hips, his uncle drew him close, and stubble scraped the back of his neck as he kissed Laurent’s ear. “Beautiful.”

 

The court was in an orderly uproar a few days before the midsummer festival. One of the court ladies, whose title Laurent ought to have known, cornered him before breakfast. “Your highness,” she murmured. “What was your position on the changes in council?”

Laurent knew enough to not admit ignorance, so he extracted himself with a non-answer, and wound his way through the great hall as inconspicuously as possible, listening to gossip. By the time he’d gathered a clearer picture, he was fuming.

His uncle was still getting dressed in his rooms. Laurent let himself in and shut the door heavily behind him. “You replaced Micha and Joan on the council? Why?”

His uncle turned. “Good morning Laurent. What happened to your manners today?”

Laurent crossed his arms. “I remember Father choosing Micha. She’s been nothing but an asset on the council.”

“You don’t trust my judgment?” Uncle was lacing up his jacket. “Laurent, my job is to take care of things so you don’t have to think about it. Times change, and the needs of the times change too. You’re overreacting.”

That stung. Laurent always felt brittle these days, half way between tears and rage all the time. “You could have talked to me first. I had to lie to Lady Delorraine when she asked me about it.”

“You’ve suffered terribly this year, you shouldn’t have to worry about politics. Have you gone riding this week? I know how much you like that. On that sweet mare Auguste gave you.”

 “No,” Laurent snapped, “because I’ve been too sore from your cock.”

He had the satisfaction of seeing his uncle’s eyebrows fly up, before his brow furrowed with displeasure. “Laurent, don’t be crude. Outbursts are unbecoming. If you are sore, you ought to take responsibility for initiating other kinds of lovemaking.”

That night it was Laurent’s jaw that ached instead. His uncle tangled his fingers in his hair and whispered, “My sweet boy, my perfect boy,” as he fucked Laurent’s mouth, and Laurent’s chest ached horribly.

 

When Laurent was restless, he wandered the halls of Arles, but too often found himself outside the training ring, or the library, or the baths; places haunted with memories of his brother. He hadn’t allowed himself to be moved into the crown prince’s formal chambers, but every morning when he got up, he had to walk past the door to Auguste’s empty rooms.

He felt jittery all the time, an anxious tug under his breast bone that never went away, even when he was lying down to sleep. He wasn’t sleeping well anyway. He had the same nightmare over and over - of swimming in the river at Aquitart, and seeing Auguste standing on the bank; feeling a rush of love and desire tangled up, guilty and hot, the urgent need to be close to him.

Laurent would start to swim toward him, but the current of the river intensified, a steady, temperature-less tugging at Laurent’s limps and the harder he fought the faster it dragged him away. The water pulled his head under and when he lifted it again, gasping, Auguste was still on the bank but lying bloody and motionless like the last time Laurent had seen him, and Laurent fought until he was screaming and thrashing in the water and it dragged him under relentlessly and then Laurent woke.

In contrast, the dreams of Marlas, full of the clash of swords and screams of dying men, were a welcome change.

The only times he slept well were after he had been drinking, although it made his head ache in the morning. Laurent thought he might like to sleep next to someone, the way he had crawled into his parent’s or Auguste’s bed when he was younger and couldn’t sleep. But Uncle always sent him away to his own rooms in the evening, even though sometimes he had to call Paschal to help Laurent walk back.

He spent time in the physician’s chambers too, where there were few memories of Auguste. Paschal would give him small tasks to keep his hands busy, chopping herbs and mixing draughts. Laurent liked the simplicity of it.

Riding helped clear his mind as well. Every morning before the heat of day he would take the mare Auguste had given him and go on long rides, watching the peasants mending fences, herding animals, thatching roofs. As the season drew on, he saw the grain ripen in the fields and the apples redden on the trees, and then farmers out harvesting, laboring from dawn till after dusk as the days shortened.

Vere was a prosperous but hard-working land, unlike the decadent south. These were his people, this was his kingdom. Auguste’s kingdom. The constant ache of sorrow under his breastbone sometimes felt something like pride.

He began to stop sometimes, to speak with people, asking about the breeds of livestock, the varieties of wheat. All his knowledge of horticulture was out of books, but if he was to be king, he would need to know more about the production of his land. In his riding leathers, sometimes people failed to recognize him, although they guessed from his fine mount that he was a noble. They spoke to him openly about their worries for the harvest, the weather, and the breeding stock, although they became edgy when he asked about taxes.

One afternoon late in fall, with a bitter wind blowing heavy clouds down out of the mountains, Laurent saw a family he had spoken with before frantically gathering sheaves of wheat from the field, stacking them on the cart to haul into the barns. Glancing at the sky, he saw the promise of rain, and the urgency in their movement. Swinging down from his mare, he hobbled her and went to help.

“What on earth did you do to your hands?” his uncle asked that evening.

His palms were blistered and scraped from the rough work, his shoulders and back aching. Laurent opened his mouth to explain about the peasants and the grain, and how one rainstorm on the wrong day could mean the difference between food and starvation for a whole winter. And then he said, “My horse spooked, and I didn’t let go of her reins fast enough.” His voice cracked a little in the middle of the sentence and he cleared his throat. “Pulled them right out of my hands.”

There was a small furrow on his uncle’s brow. “Well, I’m glad you’re alright.” They didn’t fuck that night.

 

Winter wrapped Arles up in snow and sleet. Like everything, the snow brought fresh memories of Auguste, but Laurent found that he could find a spark of joy within the unrelenting pain when he thought of his brother. He wasn’t sure whether he felt glad or guilty that the sharpest edge of loss was becoming dull.

With the harvest gathered and reported, the council was discussing the tax rate for the year. The meetings were interminable, but Laurent paid better attention than before. Now he had faces and names to put to the vague discussions of leaseholders and sharecroppers. The council meetings were even less lively than Laurent remembered from his childhood. Without Micha and Joan it seemed there was hardly ever any dissent from whatever his uncle’s opinion was.

One morning, with snow falling silently outside the windows of the council chamber, Laurent cornered his uncle at the table during a break in the proceedings. “I don’t think such a steep increase in the tax rate will be beneficial.”

His uncle made an irritated noise, looking up from his papers. “Haven’t you been listening? The disproportionate decrease in revenue from losing Delfeur will be crippling to our infrastructure unless it is made up in other ways.”

“Yes, but all at once like this? Surely the increase could be spread out over three years. We could run a deficit until then.”

His uncle sighed, and stood. With one hand, he tilted Laurent’s face up and Laurent stood frozen as his uncle kissed him. He felt the itchy rasp of his uncle’s beard against his cheeks. “Laurent,” he said softly. “My sweet boy. You’re growing up very fast.”

Something uncertain moved in Laurent’s belly. That was a good thing, growing up. It was praise that Auguste and Mother used to give him, and sometimes his father also. But Uncle didn’t say it like it was a good thing. There was a faint frown on his brow like concern. “You don’t have to worry yourself over these matters. It’s my responsibility. Leave it to me.”

“I know. But I’m worried that…”

“Laurent.” His uncle put a hand over his and squeezed tight, silencing him. “Don’t worry.”

 

The weather was too poor to go riding, but Laurent spent a long afternoon in the stables, talking with the grooms and stable hands. They wouldn’t speak outright to him about policies of course, but he asked after their families, their security for the winter, whether anyone was ill or in need. By the time he returned to the palace that evening, nose pink and bitten by the cold, and clothes smelling of horse, his suspicions about the tax rate had turned to certainty.

He let himself into his uncle’s rooms, nodding to the guard, and stopped short in the doorway. Sitting on the couch, snuggled against his uncle’s side, was a boy, perhaps eight or nine years old, cheeks still round with baby fat. He had silky honey colored curls, and wore gleaming rubies in his ears. Uncle was feeding him candied oranges off a silver tray.

“Who’s he?” Laurent said abruptly.

His uncle looked up, brushing crystalized sugar fastidiously off his fingers. “Laurent, meet Corentin. Corentin, say hello to the prince.”

“Hello, Prince Laurent,” the boy said, in his high, childish voice.

Laurent ignored him, looking at his uncle. “Well?”

“Well, what?” Uncle looked unruffled. “Is something wrong?”

There was something burning in Laurent’s chest, stinging behind his eyes - fury and betrayal and terror. “What’s he doing here?”

“I’m the king’s pet,” the boy piped up, and Laurent felt a sick swoop in his belly. He drew a deep breath and felt his hands clench into fists.

“Corentin, why don’t you run along into my bedroom for a while now,” Uncle said. “My nephew and I need to have a talk.”

Laurent waited until the boy was gone and then snapped, “What the fuck?”

“Language, Laurent. There’s no need to get so worked up. He’s just a pet.”

“He’s a _child_ ,” Laurent hissed.

“And? I’m not hurting him, you know perfectly well. He’ll be well cared for and well paid, and when I’m finished with him, he’ll be better set up for life than most boys his age.”

Laurent heaved a deep breath, fighting a dark current of hysteria that threatened to drag him down. “Is that what you like? What you wanted all along? From me?”

His uncle clucked his tongue reprovingly. “Of course what we had was different. We’re family. Corentin is an orphan, he needs someone to look after him.”

“Are you fucking him?” Laurent snapped.

“That’s none of your concern, Laurent. It’s rude to ask about other people’s private lives.”

“I thought…” Laurent choked on the words. “You said you loved me. I thought we...” he swallowed back the rest of the sentence, feeling like he was about to be sick.

“I do love you, Laurent,” his uncle said, sounding annoyed. “Don’t be selfish. Love changes as people grow. Just because I’m looking after someone else doesn’t mean I care for you any less.”

Laurent’s breath shuddered in his chest. When he spoke he hated how small his voice sounded. “Does this mean… you’re done with me?”

“Laurent,” his uncle sighed, and patted the couch beside him where the boy had been. Stiffly, Laurent crossed to sit down. “I don’t want to be.” His uncle’s hands were cool and dry, cupping his. “But you seem to need me less and less these days. You keep saying you want my support but then you push back like this. I just don’t know what to think, Laurent. Make up your mind, do you need me or not?”

Laurent realized he was shaking. “I do.” His throat clicked as he swallowed, dry. “I _do_.”

“My sweet boy.” His uncle cupped a hand around the back of his neck, drawing him in to kiss his forehead. “As long as you need me, I’ll be here.”

Curling his hand in the fabric of his uncle’s jacket, Laurent held on tight.

 

Over the next few weeks it seemed that the boy was everywhere, always at his uncle’s side. _My_ _ward,_ Uncle introduced him as, and Laurent saw the reactions of the court, suspicion and acceptance. Often the boy sat quietly in a corner when Laurent was in his uncle’s rooms, and Laurent was fiercely, shamefully jealous of his intrusion. He was very aware of his new height and muscle when he stood beside Corentin, who was soft and small and had an unbroken voice.

When he and uncle were alone, it felt brittle, as if the wrong word could shatter the rapport between them. Laurent used all the tricks he knew to please his uncle, and avoided starting arguments. In council Laurent kept his mouth shut as the tax decision wound toward its conclusion.

Sometimes Uncle would kiss him with the boy still in the room. It made the back of Laurent’s neck crawl, but he didn’t want to upset his uncle. Usually it went no further but one afternoon, Uncle kissed him softly, and pulled Laurent’s hand to his cock.

Laurent froze, eyes flickering to the boy, who wasn’t paying attention. “I don’t…  we shouldn’t…”

Cupping his cheek with one hand, Uncle pressed his thumb against Laurent’s lower lip. “Don’t worry about him.”

Laurent knelt on the floor between his spread thighs, a familiar position, and undid the laces of his trousers with practiced fingers. Bending forward, he took his uncle’s soft cock in his mouth, gently stroking the foreskin back from the head and tonguing at the slit.

Uncle was getting hard faster than usual, breathing heavily. Glancing up through his lashes, Laurent saw that his uncle’s gaze was fixed across the room, where the boy was sitting. Laurent sucked harder, and his uncle grunted but didn’t look down.

Letting his cock pop out of his mouth, Laurent said sourly, “Does the boy suck cock better than I do?”

Corentin, if he had been uninterested before, was watching now, wide eyed. “Leave us, Corentin,” Uncle snapped. The boy bolted. “Explain yourself, Laurent.”

“You weren’t even looking at me!” Laurent sat back on his heels, face flaming. “You were looking at him!”

“Are you jealous of Corentin, Laurent? For shame. You are a prince, and he’s just an orphan. Show some compassion.”

Laurent sucked in air, fighting to stay in control. “You couldn’t keep your eyes on me when I had your cock in my mouth!”

“This attitude is extremely unbecoming, Laurent. There is nothing wrong with learning to share.” The floor was hard beneath him, making his knees ache.

“Share?” Laurent spat. He got to his feet, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “If sharing means sucking you off while you pant after some child, then I don’t want it!”

His uncle raised his eyebrows. “Temper tantrums are never justified, Laurent,” he said calmly, his cock lying wet and thick against his thigh.

Laurent drew in a deep breath. “Don’t talk to me like that! I’m not a little boy anymore. You keep treating me like I’m a child but I’m going to be your king one day!” His voice had risen, he realized, almost to a shout.

“Not yet,” his uncle snapped, icy. “And this is exactly why. Outbursts like this are unpleasant in children and unacceptable on a throne. Get yourself under control, Laurent. Are you going to apologize and finish what you started or not?”  

Slamming out of the room, Laurent stumbled down the corridor to his own chambers. His stomach was knotted, his eyes burning. He threw himself face down on his bed, wrapping his arms around a pillow and burying his face in it, berating himself silently for his weakness and his stupidity. When he thought of his uncle’s sweet promises and gentle touch, he felt nauseous, filthy, his skin crawling. He dug his nails into his forearms, drawing hiccuping, shallow breaths. He wanted to tear his skin off strip by strip, rip himself out of his body to be free of the trapped, panicky pressure in his chest.

Eventually the fit passed, and he lay exhausted and shivering on the bed. Servants had lit the lamps and the brazier, and the room was warm, but Laurent felt chilled, deeper than the bite of the winter cold; a yawning, aching, terrible coldness opening in his stomach like a void. With a horrified spasm, he realized it was familiar. It was the unspeakable, grievous loneliness of loss.

For the first time since his brother died, Laurent pressed his face into his sheets and cried.

 

The next day in council, when the issue of taxes was raised again, nearly finalized, Laurent took a deep breath and said, “I disagree.”

“Laurent…” his uncle began, warningly.  

“The sudden increase will be disastrous for many of our citizens and their personal instability will undermine the resilience and security of the kingdom as a whole,” Laurent continued, speaking fast. “People who can’t feed themselves for the winter can’t plant crops in the spring, or mend roads, or serve in the army, or any of the tasks we ask of our citizens.”

There was a brief, heavy silence. Laurent was aware of the eyes of the council members flitting between him and his uncle. After a beat, the Regent turned to the rest of the council, and said, “Leave us.”

When the room was empty, Uncle turned to him. “What was that, Laurent?”

Laurent’s heart was pounding unnaturally loud in his ears. His palms were sweating. “Exactly what I said. The tax increase is a liability.”

“It’s incredibly irresponsible of you to challenge me publically like that,” his uncle snapped. “You know how important it is to appear unified.”

Laurent didn’t bother to point out that he’d raised the issue privately already. Instead he shrugged. “You’re the one who’s always saying that I need to step out of Auguste’s shadow. Someday I’ll have to step out of yours too.”

His uncle shook his head. “You were such a sweet, agreeable boy. Where did this come from?”

Something hard was lodged in the pit of Laurent’s stomach. “I’m growing up. As you clearly noticed. The council will be mine before long. It’s best they remember that.”

There was a pinched expression on his uncle’s face. “I’m only trying to do what’s best for the kingdom, and for you. You told me once you don’t even want to be king.”

Part of Laurent, young and alone and hurting, wanted to wail that he was sorry and throw himself in his uncle’s arms. But he held himself still, body taut as a bow string. Even if Uncle would hold him and forgive him now, next time he would not, or the time after. His hands were trembling but he had them clasped tightly behind his back.

Laurent lifted his chin. “I don’t have a choice whether to be king or not. But I’m going to be the kind of king Auguste would want me to be.”

They stared at one another, with watery winter sunlight streaming through the windows. There was something grim and hard in the set of his uncle’s jaw, an expression like banked fury in his gaze. The cold hollow beneath Laurent’s sternum ached sharply. Eventually, his uncle said, “Very well.”

And that was all.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are love!  
> 


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